Monday, 13 February 2012
Stream of consciousness
You have cherry brandy and sticky fingers and a cold; you are alone. Quiet, don't disturb the shadows darting in the corners of the empty house. It's better this way. Sniff the air, tend to your subdued nostrils. The pink, rabbity patch beneath your nose. Poor girl, thrashing and screaming and begging for company. Or perhaps not. Perhaps that, like every other time, is a lie. This is a relief, no, to be alone? You can think of wide flower-basketed streets and not be interrupted by chatter. You can make eyes at the moon. Your foolishness is your own regard: nothing to abide by or apologise for. The cherry brandy is sweet on your tongue, too sweet, but the red wine is in the shop and the shop is far. Actually, not so far, but enough that it is outside and you have not yet quite learned to trust outside. Not now the darkness has fallen. It was one thing when it was afternoon and you were early in the day and brave with plans; it is another now you have lived with yourself for hours and seen the creature you are around the house. How to stare into the shopkeepers eyes and conduct transactions, how to make your feet step one before the other in a direction worthy of destinations: these are the problems you struggle with. No. Better to stick with the tongue-numbing cherry brandy and cackle at yourself while on the stove the potatoes bubble. Better to wait, lick your lips, run the tips of your fingers across the pads of your thumbs. Poor girl, feeling sorry for yourself because you are sickly, feeling impatient with the world because it is there. But stop: smell the burning beneath your phlegm, girl. Stop this ever-indulgent typing and take yourself to the stove.